


don't let me let you go

by Anonymous



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Disability, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Injury Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-10-27 11:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: She swallows the lump in her throat. Think of better things, think of fucking something. Boo's laugh, the freckle on her breastbone, how she hogs the duvet. How she loves the snow and hates how grey and slushy it is in London, so drives out to the country when it does happen, and drags Fleabag with her. The way her teeth sink into Fleabag's neck when she rides her fingers and lets Fleabag press as close as she can. Don't let go like I let you go, pushed you away, please, please, please -Sometimes, the distraction works. She curls closer, careful, into Boo's side.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this an almost fix-it fic. Boo survives, but nothing will ever be the same. But they have each other, and sometimes, life is soft.
> 
> Warning for mild gore in the first half, but nothing explicit or gross.

"Jesus fucking christ," Boo says, slamming her good hand on the kitchen side "Fuck!"

The kettle is in the sink. Sometimes her hands still don't work quite right, even after all the physio, the ops, the pyramid scheme woman who tried to tell them that essential oils would cure her numbness.

Fleabag watches her. She's wearing stolen pyjamas, pilfered from under her pillow, and they're too small. They always pull funny, because she actually has tits.

She can see the surgical scarring on her back, spinal fusing that took a year to even half recover from. The mottling on her shoulders where the asphalt ripped the skin from her. Both collarbones snapped and pushed through her skin. That's the thing that sticks in her head the most. Not seeing her neck strapped into a huge cage of foam and plastic, or how her entire leg looked bendy and rubbery. It was the serrated bit of broken bone through the skin of her neck. She's made of pink and white lines.

"Do you want help?" She asks, because this is how it plays out. I'm disabled, not a charity case, Boo will say sometimes, grumbling, then let Fleabag coax her to sit down.

This time, she manages it. She makes them tea in a pot and hobbles over. She sits to Fleabag's left, and when she lifts her arm, she snuggles onto her chest.

Fleabag wants to fucking cry and scream sometimes. She wants to put her fist through the glass coffee table and rip things off of the wall, throw the cash register in the cafè. She wants to rip things apart and break them into such small pieces that then end up looking like gravel, sand, something that she can just sweep up and be done with.

I should have not been such a sociopathic cunt.

I should have thought of a better way to deal with loving you than fucking him because close enough, eh? To imagine where your hands had been on him and touch you by using him as a proxy. Close e-fucking-nough to fuck him and fuck up and take you all down with me, yeah?

I should have gotten to you in time and pulled you in and not let go of you sooner.

She'll get flashes of it. Last week she tugged the back of Boo's hoodie to get her attention, and the image of it, the fabric curled in her hand, how it would have been if she'd stopped her. Told her point blank that the time they kissed, drunk, was really her, not the vodka talking, and -

No. She's not going there today. She'll save it for the very nice therapist she goes to, the same one as Boo. After everything, and for all her faults, Claire offers to pay, and Fleabag isn't a nice enough person to refuse.

Boo smacks her leg.

"Hey! Stop drifting off, idiot." She says. She's put the TV on to a rerun of kitchen nightmares, because she likes to watch places worst than the cafe get torn apart.

"Sorry," Fleabag says, lucky that Gordon Ramsey shouting about manky old prawns drowns out how rough her voice is. She puts her thoughts to bed, visualising it, not bottling them up, but recognising she can't take them right now. Maybe therapists aren't all quacks. "Hey, what tea is it?"

"Woman's Love Chakra Zing" Boo replies, completely straight faced.

"Fuck off, what is it?"

Boo giggles, it's the same giggle she's always had. It makes Fleabag get butterflies. It always has.

"I just said, women's lov-"

"I mean what's in it!"

"Oh, yeah, cranberries, cloves, orange peel. White tea, so it doesn't need milk. I did bring the honey through though."

Fleabag dutifully pours. One spoon in her cup, one and a third in Boo's.

The cat comes in. Fleabag got him for her, because he's got a fucked up leg too. Well, no back leg at all, really. She regrets letting Boo name him Tripod. He walks funny, just like Boo does on bad days, and she'd found it hilarious and kissed her lips, and Fleabag broke down, sobbing. Slumping where she stood, snotty, wailing sounds, not movie star delicate weeping.

She swallows the lump in her throat. Think of better things, think of fucking something. Boo's laugh, the freckle on her breastbone, how she hogs the duvet. The shape of her underneath it when she sleeps. How she loves the snow and hates how grey and slushy it is in London, so drives out to the country when it does happen, and drags Fleabag with her. The way her teeth sink into Fleabag's neck when she rides her fingers and lets Fleabag press as close as she can. Don't let go like I let you go, pushed you away, please, please, please -

"Did you get it from the weed woman?" She asks, letting out a breath, slow and measured, unclenching her jaw. Inhale, exhale.

"Yeah, she's getting better at it. Remember the soapy tasting one?"

Fleabag pulls a face. She does. The cat jumps up and clambers into their laps, back leg on Boo, front paws and head on her. His claws are kneading and needling and weirdly, it snaps her out of spiralling. She's here. She has this. She has her cafe full of experimental weed woman teas. She has the cat. She has Boo, who's currently lovingly mocking her for not being more comfy on account of her lack of tits.

Fleabag presses her face into her hair. She smells of the expensive shampoo Fleabag stole from a salon the last time she got her haircut, a great big wholesale jug of the stuff making her handbag at least 3kg heavier, and two handfuls of complimentary mints from the bowl on the cash desk there.

On TV, Gordon Ramsey is placing the slab of ham under a see through plastic tub and drawing a biohazard symbol on it.

Inhale, exhale. She won't let go this time.


	2. to mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Glad I didn't break my hands completely, eh?" She says, like she's very unbothered, which is ridiculous.
> 
> "Fuck, more-" She bites out, and Boo tilts her head back with her free hand to kiss her, sucking her bottom lip. Her pale hair is shrouding them and it feels briefly like time has stopped. There's just them, it's okay, it's okay. I'm still here. 
> 
> She doesn't know which one of them would be saying that in her head, a

Sometimes, Boo will have bad days where she doesn't leave the bed and needs hot water bottles where her bones ache from being knitted back together, because her heat mat isn't doing the trick. They even have a kettle in their room for it. 

Other times she presses against Fleabag's back and presses sucking kisses down her throat until she gets to her shoulder and bites.

It makes her hips jerk into the hand between her legs, rubbing through her underwear, just slow enough that it's driving her crazy rather than satisfying anything. She'd given her two earlier and then gone back to just pressing the soaked fabric against her.

"Glad I didn't break my hands completely, eh?" She says, like she's very unbothered, which is ridiculous.

"Fuck, _more_-" She bites out, and Boo tilts her head back with her free hand to kiss her, sucking her bottom lip. Her pale hair is shrouding them and it feels briefly like time has stopped. There's just them, it's okay, it's _okay_. I'm still here. 

She doesn't know which one of them would be saying that in her head, and Boo maybe recognises she's getting desperate because she pushes three fingers back inside her and curls them hard. The stretch of it is unexpected and gorgeous. The heel of her hand is pressing against her clit with each thrust and she shouldn't be close from that, but she's been wet for a good hour and needs and _needs_.

Boo scratches down her stomach and probably feels it jump under her hand. 

"Close?" She asks, like she doesn't know what she does to her.

Fleabag nods. It feels like the room is spinning when Boo stops fucking into her and goes deep, pressing hard against that spot inside her that makes her thighs shake. When she angles her thumb to rub her clit, Fleabag is done for and she knows it.

"Fuck, _fuck_ \- gonna come, _please_ -" She gasps, and Boo kisses her sweeter than she deserves.

"Yeah, go on. Be a good girl." 

Fuck, fucking hell, that's - a _thing_. She feels it building. The scratchy velcro of Boo's wrist brace is chafing her hip and she feels so good and she's here, _she's still fucking here_ -

Fleabag bites down on her lip and lets go.

  
-

Afterwards, she lays on Boo's chest and kisses the scars on her collarbone, the one where the glass scraped a line across her tits, all five of the broken rib ones.

"It's alright." Boo says, knowing, kinder than she can bear. "I'm not going anywhere. It's okay." Her hands is stroking the tangles from her hair. She can hear her heartbeat.

Fleabag closes her eyes tight. It's okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah! Let's rewrite the entire show so that Boo is alive and the awful priest is off being awful somewhere else! Yeah!

**Author's Note:**

> In conclusion I am SAD!


End file.
